


Breakfast and Bed

by forthegreatergood



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Comfort Food, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Resolved Sexual Tension, Seduction, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a principality in possession of a good appetite, must be in want of breakfast.It is also a truth universally acknowledged, that a demon in possession of a good supply of patience, must still run out sometime.“Come on, angel.  Stop fidgeting in the doorway like a bellhop waiting for a tip and sit down,” Crowley laughed, tossing his head and grinning at him.“You’re making crepes,” Aziraphale said, realizing what an idiot he sounded like even as he said it.  Crowley had invited him for breakfast, by which Crowley had meant he was to come over to Crowley’s flat and let Crowley make him crepes.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 385
Collections: Aziraphale Treated Gently For Your Soul





	Breakfast and Bed

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of Terry Pratchett, Neil Gaiman, and the respective production and licensing companies.
> 
> Not beta-read. There are no mistakes, only reflections of our imperfect world in this, our theater of the mind, blah blah how do I explain Plato's cave to my cats.

“Come on through, angel,” Crowley called, and Aziraphale hesitated in the foyer.

He glanced into the sitting room, lips pursing. He’d come so close to this being his home, hadn’t he? A child’s whim, and he’d been given back his bookshop. A stroke of grace, and Crowley’s invitation had been dashed out of his hands. Aziraphale smiled sadly to himself and tried not to think that it had felt a bit like being thrown out of Heaven twice in one week. The lighting was even right, though Crowley had always preferred human technology.

Aziraphale shook himself out of it. Crowley had hardly barred him from the place, after all; in the months since they’d been given their walking papers, he’d come to get Crowley as often as Crowley had come to fetch him. He just hadn’t realized that Crowley’s guest room had only ever been a consolation prize for the loss of the bookshop.

He ventured farther in, following the sound of Crowley’s voice. “Really, my dear--we’re going to be late.”

Aziraphale came to a halt on the threshold of the kitchen, tongue leaden and cheeks heating. Crowley wasn’t even remotely ready. Crowley was, in fact, wearing nothing but tight jeans and a loose button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows and shirttails flapping loose over his thin hips.

“ _Really_ , my dear!” he said, looking away. The thing was only half-buttoned, even, gapping open to reveal a flash of Crowley’s chest hair as the demon turned to regard him. Aziraphale glanced back, caught a glimpse of the pale line of skin running from Crowley’s throat to plunge past his clavicles and down to his breastbone, and turned away again.

He could feel his cheeks turning scarlet, and he studied the first thing his eye fell on--the dishwasher off to his right--and tried to distract himself. It had a steam setting. Wonderful, what humans had thought of these days to keep Pestilence at bay. Between the white marble and the crystal-clear glass and the stainless steel, the whole kitchen could have been a surgical suite. The only thing out of place was the owner, half-dressed and utterly decadent.

Aziraphale imagined Crowley stooping to unload that dishwasher, hair a gold-scarlet curtain across his cheeks, curls gone unruly in the humidity, one long-fingered hand wrapped loose around the edge of it even as the other came up to wipe the condensation from his glasses… Aziraphale blinked. No, not glasses. Not when Crowley was alone, in the privacy of his own home. He’d reach up with his other hand, wipe the damp of it off his forehead with that lean forearm, faint dusting of russet hair smooth against his brow. 

_Good Lord._ Aziraphale huffed to himself. This was worse than the time he’d been sent to administer a course correction on Laudianism and been thwarted by the fad for open chemises. He’d spent half a decade living in mortal terror of Crowley’s bosoms finally escaping the dubious confines of her bodice and the other half of it trying to understand what was so wrong with celebrating Christmas, and it had been an altogether unpleasant time not to be able to absent himself from England.

“What is it we’re going to be late to, exactly?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Breakfast!” Aziraphale said, trying to banish the flush from his cheeks when he sneaked a glance back at Crowley.

Crowley leaned against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest, fingertips resting lightly on his biceps and smirk resting lightly on his lips, and Aziraphale knew precisely what he’d like to make a meal of. It really was too bad there weren’t any restaurants serving _ginger serpent on a bed of silk_ at this hour.

“Er.” Aziraphale swallowed and tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, finally registering the phalanx of bowls and active burner on the aggressively modern range flanking the demon.

“I assure you, it’s literally impossible for us to be late to breakfast,” Crowley laughed, the smirk settling more firmly onto his face.

“Ah.” Aziraphale stared at him, and dear Lord, he’d somehow managed to tie his bowtie too tight this morning. He tugged at his collar and swallowed again.

“Oh, come on, angel,” Crowley sighed, rolling his eyes and turning away. “Don’t make that face--leastaways not ’til you’ve had a taste.”

He clattered about with the bowls, poking at first one and then another, and Aziraphale ran his fingers through his hair. Crowley meant for them to eat here. Crowley meant to cook for him, to lean across the counter with his shirt half falling off, sliding plate after plate in front of him, smirking and looking at him over his glasses and waving those delectable hands around. 

Aziraphale had spent well on three millennia barely keeping himself in check with Heaven ready to come down on him like a rain of fire and brimstone if he gave in, and what was stopping him now? Nothing, that was what. Crowley’s good opinion of him, maybe, but that had hardly stopped any of the rubbish that had come out of his mouth between finding Agnes Nutter’s prophecies and getting himself properly discorporated. No--he was going to embarrass himself. 

He was going to stare too long or giggle at nothing or, God help him, _lick his lips_ like Crowley’d caught him doing back when slashing had first come into style and every careless, fluid movement of that infernally mobile creature had revealed a flash of burgundy hidden behind the outer layer of Crowley’s preferred sable. It wasn’t to be borne. He’d… he’d make his excuses, pretend some emergency--

“Here we are,” Crowley said triumphantly, practically materializing in front of him, spoon raised with one hand cupped under it to catch any drips. “Open, please.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, at that sharp-featured, beloved face so close to his, at that barely-clothed body close enough to touch. He wouldn’t need to pretend an emergency at all, at this rate. He’d miracle a brick through the front window himself if it got him out of Crowley’s apartment with his dignity intact.

“I don’t--” Aziraphale glared at the demon when he deftly slipped the spoon past his lips, stopping his objection with… Aziraphale straightened involuntarily and swallowed. “Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” Crowley grinned, not falling back in the slightest when Aziraphale took the spoon from his fingers. “What do you think--over bananas, or on its own?”

“Is that bourbon?” Aziraphale asked, sucking the remaining caramel absently off the spoon. Behind his glasses, Crowley’s eyes seemed to widen ever so slightly.

“Mm-hmm.” Crowley turned back to the range and pushed his hair out of his face, and the sleeve slipped even farther, revealing the tender skin inside his elbow. 

The tip of Aziraphale’s tongue pressed into the bowl of the spoon, and he wondered how perfectly the salt of Crowley’s skin would complement the sweet burn of the liquor-laced sugar. How perfectly Crowley’s delicate wrist would fit against his palm as he kissed his way up that exposed forearm, how perfectly Crowley’s body would tremble against his even as the demon turned his face away to hide the flush starting on his cheeks. 

Aziraphale glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, then cursed himself. The heat of the stove had already brought a pink to Crowley’s cheeks, pale skin hiding nothing of his corporation’s response to the warmth rising from the burners. He’d look beautiful--bright and burnished and _beautiful_ \--as Aziraphale held him close and kissed him.

“Come on, angel. Stop fidgeting in the doorway like a bellhop waiting for a tip and sit down,” Crowley laughed, tossing his head and grinning at him. He whisked the contents of a pitcher decisively, then poured it carefully into a pan, swirling it as he went.

“You’re making crepes,” Aziraphale said, realizing what an idiot he sounded like even as he said it. Crowley had invited him for breakfast, by which Crowley had meant he was to come over to Crowley’s flat and let Crowley make him crepes. He hadn’t even known Crowley could cook.

He ventured a little farther into the room and sat down carefully at the edge of the bar, cock thickening unhelpfully against his trousers at that persistent pink highlighting Crowley’s chiseled cheekbones.

“I am making crepes,” Crowley confirmed, setting the pan back down on the burner. “What shall we start with? And just to warn you, I’m out of Gruyere and burnt the heaven out of the cream sauce, so savory is very much not on the menu for this morning.”

“I believe you mentioned bananas?” Aziraphale managed. Crowley flipped the thin disc of batter with a practiced grace, hummed to himself, and then slid it onto a plate after a few moments. 

He inspected the bowls until he found the one he was looking for, then spooned an artful dollop of fried banana slices into the center. He drizzled it with the caramel sauce and folded it up with the same confidence he’d brought to turning it, and then, yes, leaned across the countertop to put it in front of Aziraphale. His shirt fell away from his wiry chest, giving Aziraphale an eyeful of that thatch of copper hair decorating his sternum. When Aziraphale tore his eyes away, he found Crowley watching him-- _examining_ him--with an inexpressibly fond smile curling his lips.

“Eat up, angel,” he said softly, straightening up and turning back to the range. “More where that came from, after all.”

Aziraphale stared at his plate for a few moments, resisting the urge to examine Crowley right back while the demon was distracted with the next crepe. He raised his fork and tried not to see in the delicate pastry shell the softness of Crowley’s inadvertently-displayed flesh, tried not to let his desire to taste Crowley’s skin spoil his desire to taste Crowley’s cooking. It didn’t help that, in spite of all the bowls and dishes and utensils the demon had scattered around him, there was still ample room to hoist Crowley onto the counter and absolutely ravish him.

Aziraphale cut a bite from the crepe, lifted it to his lips, and let the flavor burst across his tongue. He suppressed a little shudder at it, at the burned sugar and the cream giving way to the liquor and the fruit, at the thin layer of buttery dough falling away like a magician’s cape. He wondered how it would all change if he licked it directly from Crowley’s fingers, and his cock stirred against his thigh.

“Well?” Crowley prompted, his eyes on Aziraphale’s face even as he flipped the next crepe onto a plate.

“It’s, uh, it’s quite wonderful, really,” Aziraphale murmured, cutting another bite without meeting Crowley’s eyes. If he could get through the disappearing hemlines and tightening breeches of the 1700s without ruining their friendship, he could get through breakfast.

“A ringing endorsement if ever there was one,” Crowley snorted, hand reaching for a paring knife. He separated a strawberry from its top and chewed thoughtfully as he surveyed the possibilities.

“I didn’t think you liked strawberries,” Aziraphale said, cutting another square from his crepe.

“Love ‘em. Just rather a bit less mushy than you take them,” Crowley told him. 

He cut the top off another and offered it to Aziraphale, who stared at his long, juice-stained fingers. The berry was bright red--crimson--and the juice would still have some tartness cutting through the sweet. Those fingers would feel divine against his lips, against his tongue, in his hair after he’d sucked them clean and moved on to that long neck. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “Angel?”

“I, ah.” Aziraphale coughed. It occurred to him that he’d made it through the 1700s, with those slim thighs cased in velvet and on full display, primarily by drinking a great deal more coffee than was good for him and assuming that there was an archangel around every corner. “I trust you to know my tastes.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Crowley said, popping the berry into his mouth. He sucked idly at his fingertips, eyes back on the bowls as if considering his options, and Aziraphale watched him, transfixed. How _would_ that narrow tongue feel, dragging over his skin? Flicking against his lips? Exploring his mouth? Wrapped around his--

Aziraphale huffed softly and rubbed his eyes. Crowley had spent most of human history teasing him with everything under the sun. Every bad habit Gabriel had ever made a cutting remark about had been, at the root of it, Crowley’s doing. The one thing Crowley had never, not once, even suggested was taking pleasure in each other’s bodies.

“Here now,” Crowley murmured, practically in his ear, and Aziraphale almost jumped out of his skin. “How about this?”

He offered another spoon, this one holding a glob of some shiny, gelatinous, dark red thing, and Aziraphale obediently opened his mouth. Crowley smiled, pleased with himself, and deposited whatever it was on Aziraphale’s tongue.

Aziraphale chewed, blinking. “Oh, my.”

“Been forever, hasn’t it?” Crowley chuckled.

Aziraphale closed his eyes and savored the taste of the poached plum, the brandy warming his mouth and the fruit practically melting.

“How’s that for knowing your tastes?” Crowley asked, preening. He loaded the crepe with some whipped white fluff and then dumped strawberries all over it, not bothering with the quarter-fold before tucking in. He started another crepe cooking in between bites, and Aziraphale finished his own, mopping up the last of the caramel with the last of the crepe.

“Whipped cream?” he asked, nodding at Crowley’s plate. It seemed richer than Crowley usually liked, though God knew they’d both earned a bit of unlooked-for richness in their retirement.

“Ehn. Some of it.” Crowley cut a bit of dough off, scooped up a generous dollop, and leaned across the table to offer it to him.

Aziraphale stared at it. If they were closer…

He flushed, then reached out and took it, careful not to brush Crowley’s hand too indecorously. He lifted it to his lips, oddly aware of Crowley’s gaze on him. Why shouldn’t Crowley look at him? Crowley was waiting for a reaction, same as he had with the brandied plum. Aziraphale ate it, paused to lick a bit of the cream from his thumb, and lingered over the aftertaste.

“Cream cheese, with the whipped cream folded in?” There’d been an intriguing sort of inconsistency to it, a lack of uniformity to the sweetness and the tang of it.

“Nothing gets past you,” Crowley said, smiling. “What’ll you have next?”

“Plum, please.”

Crowley reclaimed the plate, and Aziraphale swallowed thickly at the thought of what that chest hair would feel like against his cheek. There would be an answering patch on his belly, just the right height for Aziraphale to rest his face against it if he knelt... 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. Crowley was baiting him with it, the fiend. He couldn’t be so utterly unaware of how he looked, of how easy it would be to slip a hand under his shirt and trace the ridge of his spine, how easy it would be for Aziraphale to pull that collar open and bury his face in the crook of Crowley’s neck. 

Aziraphale ground the heel of his palm into his forehead and stared at his crepe when Crowley deposited it in front of him, his mouth watering for reasons that had nothing to do with the food. Crowley smelled of warm butter and fresh fruit and powdered sugar, and if Aziraphale closed his eyes and thought back, he’d likely smell of long mornings in a soft bed and late nights by the fire, of a little too much good wine and just enough good conversation. Aziraphale exhaled slowly. Barely two plates in, and his cock was throbbing. He was ready to weep with it.

“Here, you’re not full already, are you?” Crowley asked, raising his eyebrows. He circled the bar and leaned in a bit closer, his smile taking on a sharper edge. “Or am I going to have to feed the whole thing to you, this time?”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale swallowed, his mouth tasting of sweetness and regret. “You can’t…”

“Can’t what?” Crowley asked, his voice dropping to a quiet purr.

“You can’t tease me like this,” he said desperately, staring into those dark lenses. “It’s unkind.”

Unkind, too, to have offered him a new place among the plants and the paintings and the marbles, to have installed him like a precious addition to a demon’s collection, and then thought better of it. Unkind to have celebrated the beginning of their new life together and then left him alone, unkind to have held him while he wept but not while he was smiling--

Crowley twisted the stool around so that Aziraphale was facing him, then crowded in until he was all but slotted between Aziraphale’s thighs. A snap of his fingers, and Aziraphale could hear the burner click off. Crowley took off his glasses and set them aside, and Aziraphale stared into golden eyes brimming with affection. Golden eyes which were anything but unkind.

“Who said anything about teasing you, angel?” He curled gentle fingers into Aziraphale’s lapels and pulled him close even as he bent his head and brushed his lips over Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale whimpered at it, dug his fingernails into his palms until he thought he might bleed from it, and let him. When Crowley tilted his head back, Aziraphale opened eyes he’d screwed shut and stared at him, terrified that he meant it and more terrified that he didn’t.

“Do you want me to stop?” Crowley asked softly.

Aziraphale choked at the thought, eyes going round, and the only answer he could give was his hands on Crowley’s hips, grabbing and holding on for dear life. Crowley softened against him at that, and Aziraphale could breathe again.

“No.” He gave a minute shake of his head. “No, don’t stop.”

Crowley’s smile at that was dazzling, and sharp enough to cut, and absolutely ravenous, but when he dipped his head again the kiss was just as gentle and restrained as before. Aziraphale couldn’t think through the delicate pressure on his lips, the smell of Crowley in his nose, and the feel of Crowley’s bony hips against his palms. Crowley hummed--a satisfied, almost smug sound--when he leaned back again, and his hands dropped to begin undoing the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“You never…” Aziraphale closed his eyes against the sight of those nimble fingers on his buttons. He was dreaming. He’d fallen asleep, somehow, and he was dreaming. “You never said you wanted…”

“What would you have done, if I had?” Crowley asked gently, parting his waistcoat.

There was a tug on his bowtie, and Aziraphale opened his eyes to find Crowley happily undoing it, eyes practically glowing.

“I...” Aziraphale wanted to crumple against him. He’d have been too much of a coward to go through with it. He’d have turned away and pretended not to understand. He’d have laughed too loud and made some stupid excuse and slammed the door in Crowley’s face. He’d have hurt him, like he’d hurt him when Crowley had proposed they run away together.

“You’d have done what you did every other time I suggested something you wanted to do,” Crowley continued, brushing the tie aside and beginning on the buttons of his shirt. “You’d have said yes.”

“I…” Aziraphale wanted to laugh at that overly-charitable interpretation of their history, and he shook his head. “You really--”

“‘Look at what they’re doing with dates these days, angel. Want one?’” Crowley murmured, his smile turning wistful. “Had you eaten, before that day?”

“No.” He’d been distracted, when Crowley offered it to him. He hadn’t thought of whether or not Gabriel was likely to approve until after, and then it had been too late--there was no talking himself out of it anymore by telling himself it couldn’t taste as good as it smelled or that there was hardly enough to go around anyway or that he was better than that. It did, and there was plenty, and he wasn’t.

“‘Feel this, angel--can you believe it comes from a worm?’” Crowley smirked and let the fine linen of Aziraphale’s shirt slide through his fingers. “How were you picking your clothes, before then?”

Aziraphale scoffed and looked away. He’d been reshaping the same robes he’d had since Eden, altering them enough to pass muster among the locals and leaving it at that. It had never occurred him to do something else, until he’d felt the silk wrap Crowley had found on a year’s jaunt to China--cream, with the edges done up in gold thread and flowers embroidered all over in blue. He’d looked at it and been enchanted, and it hadn’t occurred to him until so much later that he’d never seen Crowley wear anything but black.

It had been the first time anyone had tried giving him a present, and he hadn’t had the vocabulary to refuse. It would have been rude--he’d known that much--and he’d already disappointed Crowley so terribly over the Flood, and he’d spent so much time by then admiring how cleverly humans were getting on with weaving and dyeing and needlepoint.

“‘You’re not supposed to drink it alone, angel. It’s bad luck.’” 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. Getting drunk had been precisely as much fun and precisely as bewildering as it had looked from the outside, when he’d seen humans passing the wineskin around. “Where did we even wind up? Do you remember?”

“There were all those little birds…” Crowley pursed his lips. “Can penguins fly?”

“No. Swimming only,” Aziraphale said firmly. He’d seen a documentary on it. “Bit of a problem, really--no way to get away from the, ah, the orcas. And the… leopards?” He frowned. That didn’t sound quite right, but it had been a while ago. “Design flaw if I ever saw one.”

“Yeah, well, that’s Avionics all over,” Crowley said, making a face. “You should’ve seen the nonsense they floated to get around the whole lift-to-weight-ratio problem. I mean, hollow bones? At that point just suck it up and ask the Physics department to squeak in some last-minute changes.” He shook his head. “Anyway, if penguins can’t fly, then it must’ve been auks. So: the Arctic.”

Aziraphale started when Crowley went back to unbuttoning his shirt. “All that was really you tempting me?” he asked softly. “You planned it?”

“I wasn’t tempting you,” Crowley said, opening his collar a bit more and running his eyes over what he found. 

Covetous, Aziraphale thought. Hungry. Like he might want to pull the fabric aside and taste.

“It was only… you always seemed so blessed convinced that you’d get your hand slapped the second you reached for anything.” Crowley growled and closed his eyes, hands going tight on Aziraphale’s shirt. “And for what? No one was paying attention. You were just curled up in a tiny, miserable ball half the time, afraid to do anything, and it was all so bloody pointless. I wanted to make you a little less unhappy, if I could.”

Aziraphale thought of how each step had led to the next, and then the next, and then the next. He had gotten his hand slapped, every so often. It had driven a wedge between him and Heaven, over the millennia. Things might not have hurt so much, if he hadn’t known humanity so well. But then, would he have been any happier spending all that time as an impassive observer, filing reports and taking notes and never looking up from Heaven’s ledger? Arming himself for death or glory in the Final Battle, not caring any more than the others about the destruction they’d cause?

He pulled Crowley closer to him and rested his forehead on the demon’s shoulder. His button-down smelled of brandy and sugar and cream, and Crowley gently undid another button.

“You didn’t want me saying yes, though,” Aziraphale said after a moment, lifting his head again. “You said you didn’t ask, because I’d have said yes. What would’ve been so wrong with...”

Crowley’s fingers went still. He glanced away, a shadow passing over his features, and then licked his lips. “Leave it be, angel.”

“I’m tired of leaving things be.” Aziraphale studied the lines on Crowley’s face, the stamp the years had left around those lovely eyes and that clever mouth. He wanted to kiss him again, to run fingers through red hair and wrap his arms around a whipcord waist. He didn’t want it to be the once, to be dropped back off where Crowley had found him and watch Crowley leave again. “Tell me. Please.”

“You said a lot of things besides yes over the years, angel.” Crowley looked down at his hands, the edge of his thumbs running over the mother-of-pearl as if he couldn’t quite believe he could have this. “That we weren’t friends. That you didn’t even know me. Called me a foul fiend and a vile demon and a liar and, really, I tried to stop keeping track after a while.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Aziraphale swallowed, shaking his head as tears pricked his eyes. Oh, what had he done? Ruined it anyway, planted the seeds of his own destruction, ripped up that budding love by the roots every time he’d tried to keep Crowley safe. He’d only ever meant to keep being friends with him from getting Crowley killed. “You know I never meant it, any of it. Crowley, I didn’t! You can’t think--”

“I know!” Crowley’s grip on his shirt was suddenly implacable, unbreakable, something ferocious, and Crowley’s eyes were blazing. “I know, angel--don’t think I don’t.”

Aziraphale blinked and nodded mutely.

“In the last two thousand years, there’s been one being in the entirety of all blessed existence who’s never wavered in wanting the best for me,” Crowley continued, his voice gone hoarse. “Who’s never stopped trying to protect me. Believe me, I _know_.”

Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s waist and pulled the demon against him, tired of resisting the urge to hold him, and Crowley’s arms snaked around his shoulders in turn.

“It was only that…” Crowley turned his face and buried it in Aziraphale’s hair, drew a long, deep breath, and sighed as if he’d found comfort there. Sinew and bone shifted in Aziraphale’s arms, and Crowley’s grip on him went tighter. “I could live with one or the other--you saying yes or you saying all that. I couldn’t live with both. Once I’d figured out that bit, and you’d already gotten your ideas set about what I was and how it was your angelic duty to talk to me, it seemed better not to give you a shot at saying yes.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale whispered, holding him close. “I am. I never did it to hurt you.”

“I know you didn’t.” Crowley bent his head and brushed his lips over Aziraphale’s bared throat, and Aziraphale shivered and let his head fall to the side, a silent invitation for more. “Wouldn’t be making you crepes if I thought you had.”

His lips parted, and that hot forked tongue licked out, dragging over Aziraphale’s skin, and he arched helplessly against Crowley.

“So blessed fucking beautiful, angel,” Crowley breathed, his fingers curling in Aziraphale’s hair as his other hand dropped to the small of Aziraphale’s back. “ _Tease_ you?” He sucked at Aziraphale’s throat. “I’ve wanted you for so blessed long I can barely remember what not wanting you felt like.” 

He pulled him forward, and Aziraphale couldn’t help letting his heels hook around Crowley’s calves. He couldn’t help running his hands up Crowley’s ribs under his shirt, couldn’t help wriggling even closer to Crowley, couldn’t help the soft groan that escaped his lips when his poor wilted cock was pressed up against Crowley’s flesh.

“Crowley?” he panted, trying not to thrust against him as it sprang back to life. Surely some restraint was still called for, given the situation.

“Mmm?” Crowley grunted, teeth dragging over Aziraphale’s skin. 

Aziraphale gave up and bucked against him, the heat of Crowley’s corporation sending shocks all the way up his spine even through the remaining layers of cloth. “ _Yes_ , Crowley-- _yes_!”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley hissed, holding him closer, “let me take you to bed.”

Aziraphale laughed. “What’s wrong with--” He twisted around to kiss him. “--right here?”

* * *

Aziraphale sighed and rolled over, wincing slightly at the syrup-tacky smears on his skin. He went to miracle himself clean, then smiled. If he was sticky, Crowley was doubtless still utterly delicious. He pressed his lips to Crowley’s narrow shoulder, and the demon shivered and shoved the black silk sheets lower, revealing the severe arch of that lovely hip.

They’d made an unholy mess of the kitchen before Crowley had finally had enough, had hoisted Aziraphale in his arms like a blushing bride and carried him to the bedroom after all.

“Fewer hot, pointy, or otherwise dangerous things I’d really rather keep well away from that soft corporation of yours, angel.” Crowley had smothered his objections with a kiss. “Mine, too, if it comes down to it.”

One bright eye opened at Aziraphale’s tongue on his skin, and he smirked. “Knew that caramel recipe was a winner.”

“You were trying to seduce me with all of this,” Aziraphale accused, kissing his way down Crowley’s arm.

Crowley yawned and wormed his way closer to Aziraphale, fingers gliding over delicate skin even as a self-satisfied grin tugged at his lips. “I wasn’t _trying_ anything, angel. Succeeding, that’s what I was about.”

“I knew it,” Aziraphale said, reaching Crowley’s elbow. He sucked at the thin skin at the crease of it, and Crowley made a soft noise that made him want to immediate repeat the move on Crowley’s other arm. “That shirt, the way you had your hair pulled back just so with half of it falling right back out of the bun…”

“Well, letting you have your space didn’t work,” Crowley said, reaching up to run his fingers through Aziraphale’s hair. A fresh thrill ran down Aziraphale’s spine at the possessiveness of it. “And waiting for you to say something didn’t work, so we were on to this.”

“You… you were waiting for me?” Aziraphale bit his lip, the last few months reconfigured less as disinterest and more as patience.

“I’ve gone too fast for you before, angel.” Crowley rolled over and kissed him, and Aziraphale let his fingers sink into the corded muscle of Crowley’s rump. If he held Crowley fast enough and close enough, perhaps he could undo all those past mistakes. “I didn’t want to spook you. But there’s only so many moony looks a person can be expected to put up with and not make a move, and that lunch we had at Dame de Pic blew past the mark and kept going.”

“So this was my last chance,” Aziraphale murmured, shuddering. And he’d wanted to walk out, to invent an excuse to leave--

“Ha! No.” Crowley shook his head and grinned. “Your last chance was going to be… you know they make aprons that say ‘Kiss the Cook’ on them?”

Aziraphale sighed. A sign even he couldn’t have missed. “You’d have kitted yourself out in one of them?”

“And nothing else.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale tried to imagine it, that all-access pass to look and taste and touch. He’d have probably fainted. Just a handful of hours ago, and he’d have had no idea what to do with it. He rutted gently against Crowley, feeling the slide and give of his skin against the demon’s, the friction wherever there was still a smear of sugar left.

“And then if _that_ didn’t work, I was planning on chucking it in.” Crowley’s smile went lopsided, and his hand cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. “I did wonder, sometimes, if it was something you liked the thought of but had no interest in really trying. I didn’t think so, but then you didn’t even ask me to come in after that day at the Ritz, and… You know, wishful thinking and all that.”

“My dear.” Aziraphale turned his face into that warm palm and planted a kiss there, then laughed softly. “You were driving me out of my mind.” He followed the delicate line of Crowley’s veins down to his elbow. “And I didn’t think I _had_ to ask you. Caught me a bit by surprise, you taking off afterwards like you had an early morning planned.”

Crowley hissed softly when Aziraphale found a patch of dried syrup, then louder when Aziraphale slipped his knee between Crowley’s thighs.

“We could take a bath together,” Aziraphale suggested, sucking a tiny bruise into that sweet skin. 

Crowley stirred at that, eyes going wide and molten. “Now there’s a thought.”

“I assume it’s just as ridiculously overdone as the kitchen?” Aziraphale asked.

“Overdone--!” Crowley sputtered, frowning. “It’s perfect! Utterly perfect. Won’t hear a word against it.” He let a sly grin steal back across his face. “Sleeps two and everything.”

“I suppose it does, at that.” Aziraphale rested his forehead against Crowley’s scalp and chuckled. 

After a moment, they climbed off the bed, Crowley’s hand reaching for his, and ambled toward the bathroom. 

Aziraphale let himself drink in the angular planes and odd lines of Crowley’s body, all the places where he’d left something of the serpent in his architecture. “My word, but you’re beautiful.”

“Mmm. Bet you say that to everyone who makes you crepes.” Crowley stretched theatrically, glancing back over his shoulder to see its effect on his audience.

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his hand and watched the light play over that soft skin, those golden eyes, and that bright hair. When he’d looked his fill, Crowley angled his head toward the bath and started moving again. Aziraphale fell into step behind him, then paused.

“Crowley?”

“Mmm?” He stretched again, a real and artless one this time, then glanced back to see what the hold-up was.

Aziraphale nodded toward a low, richly-stained bookcase against the wall on the other side of the bed. He hadn’t noticed it when they’d stumbled in, Crowley too occupied with kissing him to quite look where they were going and Aziraphale too eager to have his hands back on Crowley in a more effective way to stop and admire the interior decorating. “I thought you didn’t read books.”

“Pssh. I don’t. Wouldn’t be caught dead, reading a book.” He took Aziraphale’s hand and tried tugging him along.

“Well, then, what’s it full of? Cunningly disguised curios?” Aziraphale asked, digging in his heels and pulling him back in the other direction.

“I’m not above picking you up again,” Crowley warned.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aziraphale laughed.

“Dunno.” Crowley smirked, letting his smile go just the right side of lascivious. “Worked out pretty well for me last time.”

Aziraphale flushed hot, remembering the taste of sugar and salt between Crowley’s thighs, the heaviness of Crowley’s cock on his tongue, such a perfect main course after the amuse-bouche of the cream on Crowley’s fingers. The way Crowley had shaken apart under him when the demon had climaxed, the soft, broken noises Crowley had made when Aziraphale had given him another, then a third. 

Crowley gave in with only one more tug, letting himself be towed along in Aziraphale’s wake.

“Oh, look!” Aziraphale stopped, his hand tightening on Crowley’s. “ _Our Mutual Friend_! You know, I never got around to reading it when it first came out? And _Lady Anna_! A first edition, too. You sly devil, letting me think you…”

He trailed off at the look on Crowley’s face, the melted-butter heat in his eyes, the unabashed fondness transfiguring his knife-edge lines into something that could crack Aziraphale’s heart if he looked right at it for too long. He swallowed and turned back to the bookcase instead, his eyes following the string of titles, one after the other, until he came to the last few.

“ _Brecht’s Mistress_ ,” Aziraphale murmured. “ _Tooth and Claw._ ” 

All first editions. All in pristine condition. All things he’d wanted, then forgotten about between one thing and another. He blinked back tears and inhaled slowly, a parade of every time Crowley had shown up with something and asked, careless as could be, if he had any use for it playing through his mind. 

_“Looked old, thought you might want a poke at it.”_

_“Looked fancy--it worth anything? Nah? Well, keep it if you like, what’m I gonna do with it?”_

_“Oh, it’s rare, is it? Good thing I grabbed it, then--looks like lunch is on you.”_

“These are… these are for me.”

Crowley shrugged, not quite able to hide the bashful smile threatening to brighten his face. “If you want them.”

“Why not just give them to me when you find them?” he asked, tears coarsening his voice. He cleared his throat and sniffed. “I mean--”

“Hard to tell, most times, what you’ll get around to buying new for yourself and what you won’t,” Crowley said, shuffling awkwardly. The flush that had begun on his cheeks at Aziraphale’s reaction was spreading down his chest, and oh, he was beautiful. “’s only when something’s out of reach that you really miss it, angel. This is just a little insurance against it, is all--an extra shot at filling the gaps in your inventory.”

“So you just…” He gestured at the far end of the shelf and shook his head. “That Dickens book was… You’ve had it since it was published?”

“Thereabouts, yeah.” 

“But that was--Crowley, that was over a hundred and fifty years ago!”

“Not too long to wait to see you smile at it, angel.” Crowley twitched and looked away, then back.

Aziraphale sat down heavily on the bed and pulled Crowley to him, hauling the suddenly squirming demon into his lap and kissing his hair. “How can you love me so much?”

“An- _gel_ ,” Crowley pouted, and Aziraphale could feel the furious blush on Crowley’s face with the heat of his cheek pressed against his bare chest. “Quit making such a fuss about some old books and let’s take a bath.”

“You’ve spent two centuries--at least!--earning this reaction,” Aziraphale told him. He couldn’t help the delighted laughter that escaped his lips, and so he muffled it in Crowley’s hair. “There’s no weaseling out of it now.”

Crowley hissed petulantly, but the arms that wrapped around Aziraphale’s ribs in return clutched him no less tightly than he was hugging Crowley. After a long moment, Crowley lifted his head and laid it on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“You wouldn’t ask,” he said quietly, “if you could see the way you light up when something makes you happy. It’s like a sunrise on the open ocean.” He squeezed Aziraphale to him. “I’d never seen anything like it, the first time I got to watch it happen. Still haven’t--not really.”

“And you wonder why I was always so afraid of something happening to you.” Aziraphale kissed him and closed his eyes. “You know you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, don’t you?”

Crowley shivered, and Aziraphale kissed him again, then scooped him up in his arms and got to his feet.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and…” Aziraphale beamed at the way Crowley tucked his overheated face into Aziraphale’s throat. “And I intend to spend the rest of eternity making you as happy as you make me. Starting with a nice warm bath.”

“Fine,” Crowley huffed, his tongue dancing over Aziraphale’s skin. “But I can’t be held responsible if you get dirtier in it than you did out of it.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to flush at that, at the promise laid thick as mortar in Crowley’s tone. His hands were firm on Crowley’s flesh, that lovely corporation heavy in his arms, and Crowley’s mouth was hot on his throat, and how ridiculous of him to think that Crowley would cast him out as Heaven had done. 

“Well, if that happens, I suppose at least it’ll be convenient for cleaning up,” Aziraphale said, laughing. He squeezed Crowley to him and carried him into the bath.


End file.
